Ninety Two Percent Moon
by Metaphorically Speaking
Summary: Perhaps the moon wasn't there yet. Maybe it needed a little more time to become completely full. Maybe, just for right now, it was only at ninety two percent. [oneshot]


92 Percent Moon

Her gentle soprano was soft against his ear. She sang a slow, sleepy song, but the undertones of her laughter kept him inches away from slumber's heavy touch. She held him in her lap, her arms encircling his ribcage, and rocked him like an infant, her voice rising and falling in a lullaby. Normally he would protest and pry her arms off of him, or slink his way out of her grip, but this song was new. She was the first he had ever heard sing those lyrics, and it was strangely hypnotizing. He had decided he could let Maria coddle him, just this once.

The song continued, a dancer dipping and twirling on a stage of pitch and melody. But it was painfully short, he realized, and after a few moments, Maria was letting the last few words drift away on the air conditioner's artificial breeze. She held the last note a few seconds longer, then, like a slowly fading memory, Maria's song melted away into nothingness. All that was left was her warmth, and the rhythm of her rocking. Back. . . and forth. Back. . . and forth.

Gradually, she let even that slip away, holding him close but no longer moving. There was a short silence, as if she expected him to squirm away from her now she was no longer singing, but he was content and did not move.

She leaned her chin on his head. "Did you like that song, Shadow?" she whispered. He had half-expected her to tease him for being so comfortable in her arms, but there was no underlying mocking in her voice. Just a question; so like Maria.

". . . Yes." It seemed right to whisper, as if they had to pay respect to the song's lingering memory. "I've never heard that one before. . . ."

She squeezed him gently and laughed. So soft, more like an exhaled breath than a true laugh. "It was my favorite when I was a child," she whispered. "When I still lived on the Earth." She shifted, and pointed down to the blue planet far below, caught in its eternal, lonely rotation amongst the stars.

The Earth was as beautiful as it was fascinating. When Maria had first shown it to him, his immediate instinct had been to seize it. He had wanted to pluck it out of time and reality and roll it in his hands. The Earth was to him a glass marble: delicate, beautiful, and perfect.

Maria had told him things about the Earth – stories of rainbows and sunrises and lightning. They were all things he was familiar with, but when she described them, he found that his knowledge paled in comparison to hers. Maria understood the intricacies of the Earth; he could only watch it in respectful awe.

"Why haven't you sung that one before?"

She did not respond immediately. She began to rock him again, and hummed a few notes from her lullaby. Back and forth. . . . Back and forth. "It's. . . a very old song," she whispered finally. Her voice quivered with suppressed meaning. "But it's very beautiful, isn't it?"

It was a question that called for no answer, so he remained silent and watched the Earth as it inched through its rotation. A hurricane was brewing in the Atlantic, a violent swirl of white cloud against the smooth cobalt of the ocean.

Her chest rose and fell against him in a sigh. "I think Grandfather used to visit me when I was very young," she whispered, "I remember him singing that song to me." Her cheek rested lightly against the side of his head, a stray curl of golden hair brushing his nose. ". . . But maybe it was my father. I'm not sure." He felt her shiver.

Being what he was, he chose silence over empty words of comfort. He twisted in her arms, and hugged her middle, his ear pressed against her chest. "The Earth will always be there, Maria," he whispered. He could hear her heartbeat, steady and strong. ". . . Whenever you're ready, it will be there."

Maria squeezed him, and whispered a word of thanks.

Then, her heart spasmed. A series of erratic beats, and, finally, silence.

His gaze snapped to her face in alarm. His muscles were already tensing, preparing for the sprint to call a code blue. . . .

Maria was smiling, and stared past him at the Earth, her lips still moving in silent speech. Her cheeks were warm with life, but her heart refused to beat, and her chest never rose with breath.

He understood.

And it was terrible.


End file.
